“Then, Rupert, what?”
“Mea,” he said, “we have still four days. Something might happen in those four days. Perhaps God may be pleased to help us in some manner unforeseen. If not, at the end of them I will accept your counsel, however cruel it may be; yes, even if it kills us both.”
“Good!” she answered, with a flash of her eyes, “such words I looked to hear you speak, for shall the preacher of a faith fly before its fires? The sooner we are dead, the sooner will there be an end—and a beginning.”
“Aye,” he echoed, breaking into English, “an end and a beginning.”
Another two days had gone by, and once more Rupert and Mea sat together. They were making arrangements for the forthcoming gathering in the temple; also, he was giving her an account of his stewardship, he who it seemed must so soon depart. He was ill; he was troubled. He faltered in his speech, forgetting the Arabic words, his head bent forwards over the book of accounts. Then suddenly he placed his hands upon the edge of the table and raised himself with a smothered exclamation of pain.
“What is it?” she asked wildly, as he sank back into his seat.
“Nothing,” he answered, in a faint voice. “It was as though a sword passed through me, that is all.”
“Oh! Rupert,” she cried, “you are ill.”
“Yes, Mea,” he said presently, “I am ill. I think that God has shown us a way out of our troubles, and for that blessed be His name. Mea, I have the plague. Leave me; leave me at once.”
“Aye,” she answered, setting her lips, “when they take you from me dead, but never before.”